“John!” Sibylla shouted, leaning over the bannister. “Be sure to thank your brother for sharing with you.”
“Thank you, Tom,” the little boy said with a full mouth. Then he extended his sticky hand. “More!”
Tom laughed mischievously. “Come and get it!” He ran off, John at his heels.
Sibylla watched them run around the old olive tree and then charge up to the sundial that Benjamin had bought two years ago to celebrate a particularly lucrative deal. To Sibylla’s great amazement, he had even dug a base for it himself. Her husband was not normally a big enthusiast of physical labor. Once the sundial had been assembled, polished, and set in the courtyard of their riad, he had planted the Union Jack in the ground next to it and invited the qaid for a viewing. Sibylla remembered how proudly he had shown off his valuable sundial. His sons saw it mostly as a jungle gym, much to Benjamin’s chagrin.
“You boys leave the sundial alone, do you hear me?” Sibylla called. Benjamin was not at home—the better business was, the less time he spent with his family—but she did not want to risk any trouble.
Fortunately, the boys could romp outside all year round. Even now, in early December, it was as mild as England in the springtime. The roses were in bloom in the riad’s courtyard, the flowers still exuded their intoxicating scent, and the little orange trees that Sibylla had had planted on both sides of the staircase bore succulent fruit. She thought it was wonderful to be able to forgo boots, muff, fur cap, and long coat. All she needed was a shawl around her shoulders. In turn, she gladly tolerated the sand and dust that the constant wind drove into the house.
She returned to her room. In her native England, the chimneys would be lit, but here in Morocco, all that was needed was a copper pan with a little coal. She took a small piece of scented resin from a bowl and threw it into the embers. The room filled with the scent of amber and nutmeg. Sibylla closed her eyes with pleasure. She loved her life here—unlike Benjamin, who even now regarded everything with suspicion.
She sat on the divan and took out the letter again. It was from her stepmother and had arrived on the mail boat the day before, together with various issues of the Times and a box filled with books. Mary was Sibylla’s most reliable connection to England. She kept her stepdaughter up-to-date on all the latest news in London. Currently, everyone was preparing for the social event of the century, the wedding of young Queen Victoria and the German Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. Every week, Mary and Richard were invited to balls and receptions given in the couple’s honor, and Mary complained that her seamstress and milliner could not keep up with the design of all her trains, gowns, hats, and gloves. Also, she was concerned about Richard’s health. He had celebrated his fiftieth birthday the previous year, but suffered from dizziness, shortness of breath, and poor sleep. She was planning to take him to have the cure in Bath the next summer, she wrote, since the new rail connection had made it easier to reach.
Sibylla folded the letter and laid it on the table. Then she got up, moved the divan away from the wall, and removed a loose board from the back of the wooden frame. Hidden behind it was her secret compartment. She reached inside and pulled out a rectangular box made of rosewood and mother-of-pearl. There was a little lock on the front. This box was where she kept the money she made from her business transactions. First, the sixty benduqui that Rusa and Lalla Jasira had paid her for the English slippers. Once word had gotten out that His Sovereign Majesty’s wives dressed their feet in English babouches, the wives of important courtiers, qaids, and viziers wanted to be a part of the new fashion trend. Business grew without Sibylla’s having to pay too much attention to it, and the resolution she had made before Thomas’s birth to stop for the benefit of her marriage was quickly forgotten.
Rusa and Lalla Jasira brokered much of her business and received a small commission for their efforts. Sibylla used part of her proceeds to pay for the goods she exported to London. Thanks to Lalla Jasira, she had contacts to merchants who provided silk, brocade, and damask of the finest quality, materials much in demand in England. Although Benjamin complained when she took up cargo space on the boats, Sibylla enjoyed her trade too much to give it up. No one except Sibylla knew about the little box, not even Benjamin, who regarded her business as nothing more than silly dalliances on which she squandered her dowry.
Sibylla carried the box over to her desk, pulled a thin chain holding a small key from under her dress, unlocked the box, took out a leather-bound notebook, and opened it. Then she dipped her quill and wrote: December 5, 1839. Underneath, she recorded the expenses for five boxes of velvet shawls that had arrived that day in Mogador and that were meant to warm the shoulders of London ladies this raw English winter. The merchant had sworn that his wares came from Kashmir, and begged God to strike him with blindness if he had dared deliver inferior quality to the Engliziya.
Sibylla spread sand on the wet ink, closed the notebook, placed it back in the box, and locked it carefully. As she pushed the divan back to the wall, she could hear the coins jingling behind it and she smiled contentedly.
There was a knock at the door and Firyal entered, carrying a tray with a glass of warm almond milk and a plate of sesame sweets. She placed it on the flat table in front of the divan.
“There you are, my lady,” she said, looking uneasily at her feet. “Will there be anything else?”
“Thank you, Firyal, that will be all,” Sibylla replied warmly.
The servant quickly disappeared. Sibylla noticed that she was wearing a colorful new dress wrapped tight around her hips. Presumably, the material was a reward for the nights she spent in Benjamin’s bedroom.
Benjamin had taken the servant into his bed shortly after John’s birth, when he and Sibylla had moved into separate rooms. She had long noticed the lascivious way his eyes lingered on Firyal’s bottom or her ample breasts whenever she leaned over to pour his tea. At night, she had heard the telltale tapping of feet on the wooden planks and the soft opening and closing of doors. The following day, Firyal always avoided her. And yet Sibylla did not hold a grudge against her husband; quite the contrary, she was glad that Benjamin acted out his male desires with the servant. She had never appreciated the physical side of marriage, and she did not mind forgoing it. She had long ago abandoned the notion of finding romance with Benjamin.
“The Engliz can make horses fly! What’s next, a flying ship?” Qaid Hash-Hash shaded his eyes from the sun and squinted at the magnificent red animal. As the gangway was too narrow, the sailors had harnessed the horse to the pulleys of the main yard, and now the precious cargo was floating halfway between the Queen Charlotte’s deck and the dock. The spectacle was so remarkable that Benjamin, the qaid, and the harbormaster were surrounded by a fast-growing crowd of onlookers. Nuri bin Kalil translated because Benjamin, in contrast to his wife, had managed to learn almost no Arabic, despite having already spent more than three years in Morocco.
Benjamin answered with a hearty laugh. “What’s next, you ask? Why, a flying carpet, of course! No offense, Your Excellency, but since the sultan offers his guests only tottery mules for transportation, I had to arrange for a decent horse for myself!”
The governor studied the arrogant Englishman. A conspicuous sundial, carp from another part of the world, clothing tailored from the finest cloth, and now this magnificent stallion. He was deeply interested to know how the Englishman acquired the means for such luxuries.
I am going to set one of my informants on him, Hash-Hash decided as he enviously eyed the horse, which had by now been deposited on the quay. Benjamin proudly walked up to the animal and was about to take hold of the halter when a seagull swooped in close, spooking the horse and making it rear.
“Hey there, what’s the matter? Calm down.” Benjamin jumped back. As he did, his tall top hat, which gave him the appearance of a long, thin reed among the shorter Arab men, fell off.
The qaid croaked with laughter. “Your horse wants to fly again, Englishman. I think it knows
the Koran. There it is written, Thou shalt fly without wings!”
But Benjamin could not hear him. He was busy chasing his hat, which the wind was driving along the quay.
The governor slowly approached the horse. By God, what a wonderful stallion, he thought, congratulating himself on having offered the Englishman the use of his stables. He would mate the magnificent animal with one of his mares and ride it without the Englishman’s knowledge. The man’s equestrian skills were like those of a monkey riding a camel, and he was using the horse only to show off anyway.
“Be careful, Your Excellency!” Benjamin called out as the stallion shook its flame-colored mane.
But the qaid was undeterred. Speaking mellifluously and softly, he took hold of the halter and reassuringly patted the animal’s neck. The stallion snorted but held still, and Benjamin watched in disbelief as the Arab stroked the flanks, then squatted and felt the legs while a sailor carefully removed the straps.
“He has the chest of a lion, and his legs are as muscular as those of a wild ostrich,” the qaid declared with admiration.
Flattered, Benjamin adjusted his top hat and replied, “He comes from Earl Godolphin’s stock and has won many important races in England. I’ll wager a hundred pounds that he could leave any of your little Arabian horses in the dust.”
The qaid’s eyes sparkled, but unfortunately, the Prophet had strictly forbidden games of chance. With a heavy heart, he replied, “I will forgo the competition for your sake, Mr. Hopkins. An Arabian horse is unbeatable.”
“You jest!” cried Benjamin. “Even my three-year-old son would come in first on an English stallion such as this!”
The qaid bared his teeth furiously. “Before you mount this stallion, you are going to pay the import tax, or else I shall be compelled to confiscate him.”
Benjamin swallowed back an angry reply. That cutthroat Hash-Hash was capable of anything. These Muslims were probably so foul-tempered because it was Ramadan. After all, denying yourself even the most basic necessities throughout the day and then gorging after sundown was surely not very healthy. No wonder they awakened in the morning with an upset stomach and in a bad mood! Benjamin, smirking to himself, watched as the qaid trudged away without any acknowledgment.
“So this time it’s a racehorse that you’re rubbing the Arab’s nose in. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s stupid to show off like that?” a voice behind Benjamin whispered.
He spun around. “Brown! For God’s sake! I hadn’t noticed you. Do you have to creep up on me like that?”
The Queen Charlotte’s captain grinned. Benjamin looked at the man’s decayed tooth stumps and grimaced in disgust. Brown resembled a crow with his dark frockcoat, stringy graying hair, and dark, piercing eyes.
“We should leave now,” he declared. “Or have you forgotten that we have an appointment with old Toledano? This was a devil of a trip, by the way. I’ll tell you about it when we get to Toledano’s . . .”
André Rouston placed both hands on the remnants of a three-hundred-year-old stone wall that had once been part of a small church built by the Portuguese when they had had a trading post here. At one time, it had been possible to stand on the brick floor and see the beams of the steeple with its bell. Now, however, both the roof truss and the bell were gone, and André enjoyed the wide view of the Atlantic. Far to the southwest, the pale gold December sun had broken through the veil of mist and sparkled on the water like diamond dust. In the north, the color of the waves alternated between ink blue and stone gray. Whitecaps danced on the surf. It was low tide; the ocean was slowly retreating, exposing the wrecks of fishing boats run aground outside the harbor entrance, and leaving behind shells, driftwood, and a wavy impression on the wet sand.
Whenever André had business in Mogador, he came to this place, secluded from the noisy, bustling harbor. He watched two three-masted sailing ships, one flying the red-and-green banner of Portugal, the other with the French tricolor. They had rounded the promontory and set course for the open seas, their sails inflated.
Whenever he stood in the ruins of the old church, listening to the seagulls screeching and the eternal rushing of the water, he pictured the ships that carried their cargo to every corner of the earth and then took the exotic wares of distant countries on board in return. He was fascinated by the way shipping connected all the continents of the world. Years before, during his brief stint as a sailor, he had not yet seen things that way. He had experienced brutality, cruelty, oppressive confinement, and draconian punishment. And as soon as his ship had reached its homeport in northern France, he had run away. To the army.
He could hear the jeering laughter of children below the walls. Next, the reproachful voice of a little boy called out in English, “Mummy, you’re doing it wrong! It keeps falling down!”
Curious, André leaned over the parapet. Directly below, a half dozen Arab boys were jumping up and down, screaming something about stupid infidels. At some distance from them in the sand stood two little boys with curly blond hair. The younger hopped excitedly around the older, trying to snatch a ribbon, which the older one clutched tightly. At the other end of the ribbon was a diamond-shaped kite made of red and yellow parchment paper being held by a woman.
André was elated when he recognized her. The wind had pulled a few golden strands out of her long braid and was playing with the hem of her kaftan. She jumped in the air, trying to launch the kite. He noted with a grin that she was barefoot. For a few seconds, the paper kite spun helplessly in the air, sagged, then crashed to the ground while the Arab boys jeered and whistled.
André’s eyes wandered from the kite to the woman. She was kneeling before her distraught son and trying to dry his tears with her handkerchief. But Tom crossed his arms and turned away from his mother. He obviously blamed her for the fact that the kite would not fly.
It did not take André long to spot the cause of the problem. After all, he was a farmer’s son from the Causses region in the south of France, and he’d grown up building and flying kites on the high, windy plains near his home. How lucky for Sibylla and her boys that he was there to help! He pushed away from the rough tower wall and hastened toward the beach with a spring in his step.
André knew it was unwise, but he had longed to meet Sibylla Hopkins again, without her husband, servants, or Mrs. Willshire. And now le bon Dieu—the good Lord—had granted him this opportunity. Who knew when He might see fit to do so again!
Chapter Ten
“Monsieur Rouston! But what on earth?”
Sibylla tried to smooth her windblown strands of hair only to have the wind tousle them again. He noted with delight that she blushed and tried to hide her bare feet in the sand.
He had found her looks remarkable more than three years ago when she had stood before the sultan in Marrakesh. Tall and slender, light haired and light skinned, she stood out in this country like a rainbow over the desert. Yet it was her face that captivated him. It was only at first glance that Sibylla looked like a delicate English rose. If one looked more closely, as he did, one noticed the headstrong line around her mouth and her keen, intelligent eyes. This woman took an interest in everything happening around her and always wanted to get to the heart of the matter.
He’d understood immediately why they compared her to a lioness—it was not only because of the color of her hair, but because of her determined personality. What heavily pregnant woman would undertake the arduous journey from Mogador to Marrakesh? His friend Udad bin Aziki, sheikh of the Chiadma Berbers, had tried to warn him. “If you find a great treasure, beware of the fearsome snake that is hiding.” The reminder that Sibylla was a married woman and a mother had not dimmed André’s fascination.
And now this absurd joy at seeing her again.
“Bonjour, Madame Hopkins.” He extended his right hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But it seemed to me that these charming boys could use a little help.” He winked at Tom, who was sheepishly wiping away his tears.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Sibylla said. “Benjamin built this kite for the children, but it simply won’t fly.”
John came toddling over on his little legs to investigate. André leaned toward the children. “You two are Tom and John, no? I will show you how to make your kite fly.”
The brothers nodded happily.
“Bon alors, garçons,” said André. “Now listen to me. John, you go and get the kite. Tom and I are going to cut off a piece of the line and you, little rascals over there,” he said, switching languages as he turned to speak to the Arab boys, “go and get me an armful of halfa grass over there by the fortress wall.”
The boys scampered off, Johnny ran to fetch the kite, and Tom helped cut a piece of the line with André’s sharp knife.
Sibylla had put her shoes back on and was trying to put her hair in some kind of order. She listened as Rouston showed the children how to make a tail for the kite using tufts of halfa grass by knotting them at regular intervals on a piece of line. With his black jacket, shirt belted at the waist, and wide pants tucked into his leather boots, he reminded her a little of an Ottoman officer she had met at the Willshires’.
“A kite needs a tail to prevent it from spinning on its axis and crashing,” André was explaining to the children. He turned the kite over so that the cross that Benjamin had built from thin wooden sticks was on top, and slightly shortened the line that was attached to it.
“Now all we have to do is knot the tail onto the kite and then you’ll see how wonderfully it flies. Bon!” He got up. “Promise not to fight and to take turns holding the line?”
The boys nodded earnestly. André handed the line to Tom, beckoned one of the Arab boys to come closer, and gave him the kite. “What’s your name, son?”
“Sabri bin Abdul bin Ibrahim bin Ridwan bin Nurredin al Mogadori,” the little boy proudly answered. “But you can call me Sabri.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sabri. This boy here is called Tom Hopkins. You two are going to make this kite fly. You are going to take it and run as fast as you can while Tom holds the line. When I give you the signal, you’ll throw the kite as high as you can, oui?”
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